


If You're Gone

by chooken



Category: Westlife
Genre: Break Up, M/M, POV Alternating, Romance, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-17
Updated: 2014-12-17
Packaged: 2018-03-01 21:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2788508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chooken/pseuds/chooken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic based on the Matchbox Twenty song. They used to know each other inside out, but now neither can remember why they stay.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You're Gone

_I think I’ve already lost you_

 

I see it in your eyes. You’re so far away. Maybe you don’t want to be here. I don’t know, but every day I see you retreat a little more into the world inside your head. Or maybe you just retreat from me. It’s hard to see you every day, Marky, sitting in front of the TV when I go out, still there when I get home, an empty packet of biscuits in your lap. I used to ask you if you wanted to come, but you always said no. I don’t bother any more.

 

_I think you’re already gone_

 

You stopped asking me if I wanted to come when you went out, Bry. I don’t know when it happened, but somewhere along the line you did. Maybe you don’t want me to come. Sometimes I wonder why that is, but I don’t think I want to ask, and I don’t think I want to think about it anymore. I don’t need to wonder what you’re doing without me.

It hurts too much. Maybe there’s someone else, but I doubt it. You’d never do that to me. Not while we’re together. But sometimes I wonder if we are together, if you’ve already left me in your mind. So maybe there is someone else. And it scares me that I don’t know.

I used to know you inside out.

 

_I think I’m finally scared now_

 

You’re leaving me, I can see it. I pass you the milk across the breakfast table, and it feels strangely empty. It’s such a simple thing, but there’s no smile, no nothing. You don’t give me one of those amazing loving, trusting glances like when we first got together. It’s like you’re shrugging at me, thinking ‘why do we bother? Why do we do this to ourselves, Bry?’ and then you retreat.

I ask you what you want to do today, and you shrug some more, for real this time. I’m frightened, you know. Even if we’ve been… cold… lately, I don’t want you to leave me. I don’t want to be apart from you. But I miss you already, and we’re still together. That’s not right, is it?

I pass you the sugar. You don’t even look up at me.

 

_You think I’m weak. I think you’re wrong._

 

You give me one of those looks when you leave, the look that says ‘for fuck’s sakes, Mark, get off your fat arse and move away from the TV’. I bore you, I know. But… how am I supposed to care what my fat arse looks like when you don’t even seem to look at it any more? And how am I supposed to move away from the TV when there’s nothing to tempt me away. You usually go out after breakfast, you don’t come back til later. You don’t ask me to come. I want to come. Why don’t you ask me?

I couldn’t even look at you at breakfast this morning. I didn’t want to see that disappointment and hatred in your eyes.

 

_I think you’re already leaving_

 

I saw you looking in the closet today. Taking stock of your clothes, probably. Deciding what to pack when you walk out on me.

I want to grab your shoulders, scream at you to stop leaving me, you fucking dickhead, you stupid twat, because I love you. I love you, Mark, I love you, I love you, I love you…

But I’m frightened you’ll give me a blank look that says that you don’t.

I don’t want that look. I don’t want to hear those words.

But you don’t talk to me anyway, so I suppose I never will.

 

_Feels like your hand is on the door_

 

You fell asleep on the couch last night. You’ve been doing that a lot more, lately, and I suppose in some ways I’m glad. It’s better than the cold indifference on the other side of the bed. A Bryan-shaped doll that faces away from me. Sometimes we fuck, when we can be bothered, but lately my own hand’s been better.

At least it’s warm.

We don’t make love. I barely remember what it was like making love with you. Maybe it’s me. Maybe I have let myself go. But what’s the point in keeping myself looking decent?

 

_I thought this place was an empire_

 

I fell asleep on the couch for the third night in a row, last night. I remember when I used to do that, and I’d be woken up by you whispering my name, smiling down at me, your arms pulling me up and wrapping around me, guiding me to our bedroom, not leaving me, pulling me close.

Now our room is a place I go sometimes, when I need clothes, when you’re using the downstairs bathroom and I go into the en suite to use the loo.

It looks colder. Do you notice that?

Do you notice anything, Mark?

Do you notice me?

 

_Now I’m relaxed, I can’t be sure_

 

I don’t care any more. I don’t. I’m just going to sit back and let the inevitable happen.

Get the fuck out of my life if you want, McFadden.

You’re out there right now. Shagging someone, probably. Or maybe. I don’t know anymore. I don’t care anymore. Do whatever the fuck you like. Without me. I don’t want you here. I don’t want to deal with your shit, with your silences.

Fuck off. Fuck off. Fuck off.

I could leave right now. Pack my bags. Walk out the door.

I could do it, you know.

 

_And I think you’re so mean_

 

It wasn’t necessary to say that. You could have kept your stupid gob shut, said what you wanted to say at home instead of around our friends. They don’t need to be brought into our stupid, messed up web of misery.

But you don’t talk to me, do you? You talk to other people. You talk to Shane and Nicky and Kian and your mam and Rowen and your brothers and every single person you know. Everyone out there probably thinks I’m a bastard. You’re the bastard.

Talk to my mam next, why don’t you? Tell her what you won’t tell me.

 

_I think we should try_

 

Shit, I’m sorry, Bry. I shouldn’t have said that. I was drunk and stupid and angry. I shouldn’t have said that. I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry.

I want to say sorry. I want to let you know that I love you, that I want you. That I don’t think you’re an idiot or a bastard or a sorry excuse for a partner. I don’t think that. I don’t.

I want to tell you. But how am I supposed to do that when I see my words projected back at me through your face?

Bry… please. Just please say something that says it’s not over.

 

_I think I could need this in my life_

 

Mark… please don’t leave. Please don’t, baby. I’ll do anything. Anything you want. Don’t leave. Don’t leave. Please…

You sigh and look at me. I haven’t said a word to you, even though all the words I want to say are bouncing through my head.

“Just… say something.” You run a hand over your face. “Say something, Bryan. Okay? Blink once for yes and twice for no. Use fucking semaphore, I don’t care. But don’t sit there silently and act like you don’t know what’s going on.”

I don’t know what to say to you.

 

_I think I’m scared, I think too much_

 

I’ve packed my suitcase and unpacked it so many times I’ve lost count. You go out and I pack. You come home, and I unpack. Maybe I’m waiting for the time you’re five minutes late. Maybe that’ll give me enough excuse to walk. Maybe I’ll tell myself you’re not coming home at all.

But there you are, at the door, I can see you through the window. There’s a takeaway in your hand. I’ve already made dinner. An hour ago.

I cram my jeans back in the drawer. Hang my shirts back in the wardrobe, next to yours.

I need to stop doing this. Make a decision. I’m terrified I’ll make the wrong one.

 

_I know this is wrong, it’s a problem, I’m dealing_

 

“Well I didn’t know!”

You blow up when I get home. How was I supposed to know you’d already made dinner?

“You don’t fucking know anything, do you?!”

We fight. It doesn’t bring tears to my eyes, or make my heart pound in my chest like when we first started out. We scream at each other, but I feel like I’m going through the motions. I throw the takeaway in the bin in a half-hearted display of indignity. You eat your own meal, and I make a sandwich.

We don’t have make-up sex. Jesus, did we ever do that? It seems like a lifetime ago.

 

_If you’re gone, maybe it’s time to come home_

 

I slept on the couch last night. Did you even notice that? We haven’t spoken in four days, but I don’t think it’s because of that fight. We didn’t speak before the fight either. I screamed more words at you than I’ve spoken to you in the last month, I think.

I packed my suitcase. I don’t think I’m going to unpack it this time. It’s time to do something. I’m sick of being miserable.

Maybe I’ll go back home to Sligo. I don’t know. All I know is that you’re gone, and this doesn’t feel like much of a home any more.

 

_There’s an awful lot of breathing room, but I can hardly move_

 

The house echoes. I never noticed that before. It was never silent when I walked in before. The TV was always blaring.

The TV’s not blaring.

The lounge is empty.

The house is empty.

Except for a note.

I can’t move, just stand there with my hand over my mouth.

You’re gone.

 

_If you’re gone, baby you need to come home_

 

I went back home to mam and dad. They were supportive, hugging me and offering me a place to stay for as long as I needed. It was kind of nice to have someone fussing over me and telling me I was wanted. I haven’t felt that in awhile.

It was cowardly to leave a note. I know that, Bryan, and I’m sorry. But one look at you and I couldn’t have done it. And I needed to do it.

As much as you seem to hate me, I still love you. I couldn’t have done it.

 

_There’s a little bit of something me in everything in you_

 

You’ve taken something of me, Marky. I never thought I’d feel this. There’s something missing. All the things that used to annoy me, all the things I swore I’d never miss.

I feel empty when I come home and get no indifferent greeting grunted at me.

I feel lost when there’s still a full packet of biscuits in the fridge.

I catch myself passing the milk, then realise there’s no-one to pass it to.

I want to call you and tell you about my day. But I don’t remember telling you about my day in the longest time. You never seemed to care. Didn’t give a shit about what I was off doing all day.

I want to yell at you for leaving me, even though there’s a voice in the back of my mind telling me that you made the right decision.

 

_I bet you’re hard to get over_

 

I don’t cry much. I’ve never been the kind of person to cry. But it hurts, in my chest. A big lump the size of a grapefruit pressing down when I try to breathe. When I think of you. I think of you an awful lot. I can’t seem to get you out of my head. Your voice in my head, saying more words than you ever did when you were here.

I miss you. I want you back. I need you with me.

I feel empty and lost and sick.

It hurts and I… I want to go back.

 

_I bet the moon just don’t shine_

 

You left three beers in the fridge. Not my brand; the kind you always drink. I pick them up, meaning to throw them away, but on a whim I open one. I take a small sip.

It tastes of you. Tastes of your laughter and sweetness and the way you’d always make silly faces and talk about nothing and I’d always understand you until you fell asleep at the table and I’d carry you upstairs and curl around you and you’d kiss me and I’d tell you I loved you and we’d lay together and you’d giggle every now and then, that taste on your mouth when our lips brushed.

I take another sip.

Before I know it, I’ve finished the whole bottle. I take the other two back to the couch and turn the TV on. I open a packet of biscuits.

 

_I bet my hands I can stay here_

 

The phone looks big and small at the same time, laid there in my lap. It’s so real, weighting down on my knees, yet my fingers feel too big and ungainly for the buttons.

Probably a good thing. I shouldn’t call you.

I don’t want to call you.

I don’t want to hear your voice and I don’t want to know how you’re doing fine and how you’ve barely noticed I’m missing.

It hurts in my chest again. I want to cry.

I put the phone down. Why bother? I can’t go back. I won’t.

 

_I bet you need more than you mind_

 

“Bry?”

There’s a soft sob on the other end of the line. I just hear it.

“Mark?”

*click*

 

_I think you’re so mean, I think we should try_

 

The phone rings. I look at it. It says your name in big block letters on the screen.

Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone!

It’s been almost two weeks, already. I’m getting over you, I know I am. Sometimes I go for hours without hurting, and it doesn’t even hurt that much anymore. It aches more than anything. A deep, persistent ache that won’t go away. It won’t let me breathe and I…

No. No, don’t do this to me. Don’t make me feel this, Bry. You hurt me too much already. We weren’t good together. We were cold and sad. Don’t. Don’t, please.

Don’t do this.

 

_I think I could need this in my life_

 

I feel like I’ve rung a hundred times over the past few days. Why won’t you pick up?

You rang me first. It was two and a half weeks ago, but I remember very well. You feel something, you bastard. Why won’t you pick up? Didn’t we always say we’d be friends? Do friends ignore their friends like this?

My mouth tastes like you. Like your beer.

Like a few of your beers.

I dial again.

“Please stop ringing, Bry.” You sound strong. “Stop it.”

 

_I think I’m just scared that I know too much_

 

“Mark… Mark…” You sound drunk. You wouldn’t stop ringing. I had to answer. I really did.

“I’m hanging up.” I try to sound strong, but I don’t think I do a good job. Maybe you can’t tell, with how drunk you are. I wish you wouldn’t do that; I never liked it when you drank. You never seemed to know when to stop and it frightened me.

Not that it’s my business.

“You’re my best friend, Mark…”

“Leave me alone, Bryan.”

I end the call, and wipe my tears off the receiver with a tissue.

 

_I can’t relate and that’s a problem I’m feeling_

 

Fuck you, Mark. Fuck you.

I love you, you bastard. I don’t understand. How did we get here? How did something so perfect go so sour? We used to love each other and have fun and smile and laugh and we’d cry together instead of apart and we’d cry for each other and hold each other and tell each other things.

We were friends as well as lovers. Where did that go?

When did we stop understanding each other? Why can’t I read your thoughts?

 

_If you’re gone, maybe it’s time to come home_

 

You showed up at my doorstep. My parent’s doorstep, rather. I really should move out, but I don’t exactly have a place to go. I should find one, but it feels too hard. The last time I went house shopping it was with you.

That sounds so trivial, like I’m trying to justify my laziness. I probably am.

“I thought maybe we could go for coffee?”

That sounds so ridiculous, especially considering we live four hours apart. You’ve driven four hours for coffee? That sounds like one of the impetuous things you’d do, you great dickhead.

“Bryan, we’ve split up. We’re not together. How do you not get that?”

“I know. I…” You swallow. I watch your adam’s apple bounce in your throat, your hands twitch, itching to fidget. “But I thought for the band, we should at least try to be friends.”

 

_There’s an awful lot of breathing room_

 

“We are friends.” You sigh, running a hand over your face. You look good. There are dark circles under your eyes, and you look like you’ve lost weight and you haven’t changed your shirt in a few days. You look beautiful. “But I’m not ready for this.”

“Okay.” I step back. Maybe if I give you some space…

Your lips tremble. I see them. You swallow, and your eyelids flicker downwards, your hands wringing each other.

“Later, okay? Not yet. I need some time, Bry.”

 

_But I can hardly move_

 

I lay on my bed, that familiar feeling of emptiness beginning to seep through my limbs, filling me up. It’s still your fault, just not in the same way.

I feel cold and that ache is back. But I’ve done the right thing. I need awhile to regroup. Readjust. But I’ve done the right thing and everything will be okay. We can be friends, and we’ll learn not to be lovers again. It used to come easily, it will come easily again.

I feel heavy. I don’t want to move. I think I’ll call you if I do.

 

_If you’re gone, baby you need to come home_

 

It’s twenty-six days since I last saw you. The phone rings.

“You still up for that coffee, Bry?”

I say yes, and grab my jacket from the hall. You’re back in town, looking for a place to live. You want a place near work, somewhere you can stay when we’re recording and stuff. Somewhere close to Nicky and Kian. And me.

We meet in a café downtown and choose a quiet corner to sit in. It’s not private here, anyone could recognise us, but I knew better than to suggest somewhere private. ‘It’s too soon for that,’ you’d say, and I can see where you’re coming from.

 

_There’s a little bit of something me in everything in you_

 

You talk a lot. It’s almost overwhelming – it’s been awhile since you’ve talked that much to me. But there are things going on. You’re writing songs and you saw this great movie the other day and have I seen the state of the Dublin bus system?

I can see things I remember. The way you hold your glass. The way you push your hair off your face. It’s longer, like it was a few years back. Your eyes are bright when you talk to me, and I have to resist the urge to reach out and touch you. Pat your hand. All those things I used to do.

Maybe it’s too early. This is so hard.

I can see all the things I was in love with. My Bryan seems to be peeking out from behind your eyes again.

 

_I think you’re so mean, I think we should try_

 

Even looking at you is hard, like you’re tormenting me. It looks like you’ve been eating better (Mrs Feehily’s hometown cooking?). There’s colour in your cheeks, like you’ve actually been outside. You don’t talk that much, but you laugh a lot, and once – just once – you pat my hand like you used to. But a look crosses your eyes, and you pull back, crossing your arms over your chest.

I remember this, what it used to be like when we liked each other. When we used to smile and joke. Your laughter and the way you looked at me like you were genuinely interested in the crap I was spouting. I remember this.

 

_I think I could need this in my life_

 

Another coffee the next week. The week after that we go to the carnival and I nearly choke on my own laughter when you do impersonations of the sideshow vendors. The week after that, we go to a pub and have a couple of drinks. We talk about us. You never cheated on me, and I believe you. It’s tentative conversation, but there’s something comfortable about it. You moderate your drinking because I always used to worry about that. You’re trying for me, and I’m trying for you. Which is more than I can say for when we were together.

We go shopping, we go to the movies, we go for random wanders through the park. It feels good. I like this. I like being your friend.

 

_And I think I’m scared. Do I talk too much?_

 

We go to our first club almost three months after you walked out on me. You’re bored of pubs and want to go somewhere loud and fun, with strobe lights, and spirits instead of beer. You want a beat and a pulse, and I say yes.

Someone hits on me. You’re on the stool next to me when a bloke comes up and asks me for a dance. You smile at me and tell me it’s okay, I should go on, and you’ll be fine here.

I want to say yes. I’m single now, aren’t I?

I say no and, smiling, turn back to you.

Someone hits on you ten minutes later, and you shake your head, reaching out to touch my hand. Comfortable and friendly, no ulterior motive. But it’s nice.

 

_I know it’s wrong, it’s a problem, I’m dealing_

 

I’m falling in love with you, Bryan. I don’t like this feeling. We’re friends now and it’s perfect. I don’t want the bullshit of a relationship with you again. I want to keep liking you, and keep being with you because I want to be.

I want to keep laughing with you and keep spending time with you.

 

_If you’re gone, then baby it’s time to come home_

 

I’m falling in love with you, Mark. Shit, no. I wanted you back at the beginning, when we were ex-lovers instead of friends, but I don’t want that any more. I want us to love each other, not hate each other, and that’s what will happen if we do this to ourselves again. We’re creatures of habit, you and I. We fall into routines.

I like this routine of loving you. It feels like coming home, in a way. Being with you, spending time with you. This used to be all we needed

But it’s so easy to be in love with you.

 

_There’s an awful lot of breathing room_

 

You’ve had a few drinks, but I’ve had more. The floor is rippling under me as I make my way across our living room… sorry, your living room. You’re already collapsed on the couch, your mouth wide open and snoring. You look adorable, like a big, helpless puppy, completely vulnerable to me. Except for the way your head’s twisted. Your neck will hurt like hell in the morning.

“Bry.” I nudge you gently, but you only mumble something and press your face into your arm. So I nudge you harder, until you wake, your eyes bleary and unfocused. You’re not really awake, I don’t think, so I do what comes most naturally. Reaching out both arms, I tug you up off the couch, putting my arm around your waist and guiding you up the stairs.

Your arm’s around my shoulder when you fall down onto the bed, and I end up getting tugged with you. You giggle under your breath. I laugh too, you’re so silly and infectious, and rest my chin on your forehead.

“Stay til I fall asleep.”

“Okay.” I agree, even though I know I shouldn’t.

 

_But I can hardly move_

 

I’ve been looking at you for awhile, asleep beside me. You look beautiful in the early morning light. Soft, pale skin. Plump red lips parted around your breaths. All of you relaxed, curled around me, your arm thrown across my chest. I don’t want to move you and wake you, this feels too perfect. But I know I shouldn’t let us stay here. It’s not fair on either of us, on our friendship.

I reach up to stroke your cheek. Your eyelids twitch. I touch your lips, feeling how soft they still are.

“Bry?” Your eyes open, blinking and confused. You yawn. “Did I fall asleep?”

“Yeah.” I reply. You yawn again.

 

_If you’re gone, hell, baby you need to come home_

 

You’re all warm. I’m not sure what’s happening, just that we’re lying down and you feel so good pressed against me, all warm and comfortable. Your hand is stroking my back. I feel so sleepy. So relaxed. So nice.

“You’re so warm.”

“You too.” Something soft and wet brushes my cheek. Somewhere in the back of my mind I know what it is. I think I choose to ignore that knowledge. Enjoy this. I turn my head to say something, something blurry that will convince both of us that I don’t know what’s going on.

I don’t mean for our lips to connect. I don’t think.

 

_Come home_

 

You kiss me. Or I kiss you. I don’t know. All I know for certain is that it feels good. That you feel good.

We feel good. Right. Like something fitting together.

We work.

 

_There’s a little bit of something me_

 

“What are we doing, McFadden?”

You smile at me.

“Kissing, I think, Feehily.”

“Oh.” I reply. “This is a bad idea.”

You nod. “Awful idea. We’ll fuck everything up. I’ll start hating you. You’ll start hating me…”

“I never hated you.” I reply.

 

_In everything in you, something in me_

 

I shake my head.

“I never hated you either.” Your fingers stroke my cheek so gently, so reverently. Like in the beginning, when everything was perfect and new. I want this feeling to last forever, even though I know it doesn’t. I know from experience.

“Bry.” You breathe, and your lips connect with mine, tender and exploratory. Like a first kiss. A new beginning, maybe. Or an ending.

I breathe your name back, and you smile. Your name feels good on my mouth, especially when it’s pressed against yours.

“I want to give it another go.”

“We’ll fuck up.” You remind me.

“I know.” You smile, then laugh, burying your face in my shoulder.

“Bring it on then.”

 

_Everything in something, in you_

 


End file.
